Dear Rachel
by makealist
Summary: Ch1: Juliet with the Others; Ch2: Dharma times; Ch3: Sideways
1. Chapter 1

**This is the other three-chapter story. You could consider it Juliet's POV to the "Living Life" story that I just published, but only in the sense that the stories aren't mutually exclusive, not in the sense that they necessarily fit together or anything. **

* * *

September 22, 2001

Dear Rachel,

This is going to be a good news/bad news letter. First, the good: I made it here safely! I guess I can't say for sure where "here" is exactly, but wherever it is, it's beautiful. If I were a betting woman, I'd guess an island in the South Pacific? Well, when I find out, I'll let you know.

Now the bad news: apparently communications are down. No phone lines out, no email, etc. Hence, the good old-fashioned letter. The submarine that brought me here (yes, you read that right) is leaving soon and the crew promised to get this to you.

I guess I don't have much else to tell you. I'll be in touch for real as soon as I can. The people here seem nice enough. I met my boss, and he seems intense, but pleasant. They have me sharing a house with someone, but they say it's temporary.

Well, I'm guessing that by the time this letter gets to you, I'll have already gotten to speak to you by phone or whatever, but in the off chance the communications are down longer than that, I hope this finds you (and the baby!) well. Get plenty of rest. Eat healthy. Doctor's orders!

Love you,  
Juliet

* * *

September 29, 2001

Dear Rachel,

OK. I realize you haven't even read my first letter yet. The submarine still hasn't left, but leaves tomorrow. So, I thought I'd take the time to send an update. Still no word on outside communications. Yes, it's frustrating, but I've got a lot of other stuff going on, so I am choosing to appreciate unplugging for a little bit.

Lots to tell. Let's see. The job. It's a lot worse than I thought. Not the job, I mean, but the problem. It's not that the women can't get pregnant, they can. The problem is that they all die. It sounds horrible. But, Mr. Alpert wasn't lying about the support and the resources. My lab is amazing, and I do have full freedom to do what I want. I'm excited about the challenge.

I've met a few people and made some friends, including my old roommate, Sabine. The people are nice, but I get the sense that new people don't come here often. I'm something of a minor celebrity. They make me talk to a therapist or counselor or whatever. Weird, but . . . shoot, maybe I could use some therapy. I surely don't have all my cards in order, you know?

A few of the guys have offered to take me out to the shooting range next week. Ha! Watch out, when I come back I'll be a crack shot! I know it sounds absurd, but they say you just need a keen eye and a steady hand. So, I'll give it a try.

Oh, I called Sabine my "old" roommate. That's because they've moved me to my new place . . . a nice cabin all to myself! It seems like overkill, but, hey, I'll take it. The privacy is nice. Plus, at her house, Sabine gave me the big bedroom, even though she has a boyfriend. I felt bad about that.

Oh! Speaking of the big bedroom at Sabine's, here's a kind of cool/creepy mystery I know you'll appreciate. There was a loose floorboard there and every time I got out of bed, the floor would creak. Kind of annoying. One day I noticed that the edges were kind of worn, like someone had messed with it. Well, I was bored and curious. So, I pulled it up. Here's what was in there (it's the big mystery). Ready?

OK, it was a real old Polaroid. It was really faded but it had three guys (two of them Asian) wearing like, I don't know, khaki coveralls or something. There was a paperback copy of The Phantom Tollbooth (sad to say, I almost kept the book for myself. I LOVED that one when I was a kid). Then, a cocktail napkin with someone's kissy-kissy lip print on it (gross!). Annnnnnnd . . . here's the best: a little velvet bag with a diamond ring inside! I am not kidding. So, what do you think about that? It was really old. Whose is it? Why is it there? Do you think they are looking for it? Of course not, they (whoever they are . . . creepy) know where it is since they put it there, right?

So, that mystery kept me up one night. I know it's right up your alley. I'll let you know if I ever get it solved.

Well, anyway, I'm glad to be out of there. Sabine and her boyfriend can sleep in the big bedroom with the creaky floorboard of mystery, and my new place is very nice.

Will sign off here. I want to make sure this gets on the outgoing sub. Again, I'm sure by the time you read these, we'll have spoken. In the meantime, take your vitamins. Put your feet up whenever you can. Doctor's orders!

Love you,

J

* * *

January 15, 2002

Dear Rachel,

This will be my last letter. One I won't even send, as I realize now that you haven't received all the ones written and sent previously. None of them. I sent them all last fall and into the winter. I don't know what they've done with them, but I'm sure they've never gotten to you. I wonder if you've tried to get in touch with me, write me, call Richard, anything . . . and I suppose I'll keep on wondering.

Ben told me today about your cancer's return. He says Jacob can cure it . . . if I stay. Don't even bother asking who 'Jacob' is. It's absurd is what it is. Absurd! But then, what sort of choice is it? I have to believe. I have to. I can't go home and watch you die, especially knowing I could have done something about it. I can't even say for sure that I believe Ben. But I have to. I have to.

They've trapped me here, Rachel. They've buttered me up, made me feel comfortable and important and trapped me, lied to me, and kept me here. I wish there were some way I could let you know how often I think of you, and how badly I wish I could hug you and be there for you.

Enough! I will no longer allow myself to think that way. What good does it do? No good. And so I will no longer wallow in it. I will just move on and try not to think/feel too much about anything. Sorry to sound so maudlin, but it's not like you're getting this anyway, so why should I bother?

And since you aren't going to be getting this, I might as well confess that I was the one who told Bobby Stanford about you holding hands with Mike Jones at the roller rink. Ha! And my apologies to Katie, who I think you always blamed.

OK, so I move on. I'll get through. Meet the new me who doesn't give a shit about all the things I used to care about (New Me curses, too!) Remember that nice guy I told you about? The married one? (Well of course not, you never got my freaking letters, God dammit). Anyway, I'm meeting him for lunch tomorrow, and if it goes further than that, well . . . well, New Me doesn't care. No she does not. New Me wants to get laid. There, I said it.

New Me does what she's told and muddles through without worrying too much about anything else.

Please, please, please take care of yourself. Please be well. Please be healthy. Please don't worry about me too much.

I love you. I miss you. And now I guess I'll burn this letter that you'll never get.

Love, Juliet

* * *

September 24, 2004

Dear Rachel,

I've kept my promise to not write again. What's the point? I've been muddling through like I said I would, doing all sorts of things I never thought I would. I don't always recognize myself anymore. I almost don't know how to talk to you, and I guess it's a good thing that this is yet another letter I'll never send and you'll never get.

I saw you two days ago. I saw your son. It was the best moment in my life. Maybe the worst, too. I'm going to get back to you. I am. I'm done with muddling through. I'll figure something out. That is my promise to you.

We do have communications with the mainland. I guess we always have. Just another in a long line of lies. A plane crashed here and there are at maybe 50 or so new people here. Not that I've seen any of them, but things are off-kilter here, which may be my opportunity.

"My" "people" (eyeroll) have been gathering info on the people who crashed. Some rather unsavory characters, if I do say so myself (but who am I to judge anything?). And no need to worry your pretty little head, I'll steer clear of the worst of the worst.

Things are about to get interesting I predict, and from my perspective . . . that's not a bad thing.

Keep your fingers crossed, big sis. I'm going to work out a way to get home soon.

Love you,

Juliet


	2. Chapter 2

**This doesn't fit in with the "Dear Rachel" format set up last chapter. Although the next (and final) chapter will. I considered making this a "Dear Diary" type of thing, or letters Juliet wrote in her head or something, but, you guys, that would take way too much effort to make it actually work.**

* * *

**April 24, 1975**

Juliet pulls a monkey wrench from the toolbox, and the wrench is slick and greasy. The can of WD40 rattling around at the bottom of the toolbox must have a leak in it. She puts the wrench back, wipes her face (and now her face is as greasy as the wrench), and roots around for the WD40.

"Juliet?" she hears Amy's sunny voice behind her.

Juliet turns with a smile on her face. It's good to hear Amy so cheerful. She's been so happy of late, and Dharmaville is filled to the brim with reasons for this sudden happiness. Juliet's smile fades slightly when she gets a bright flash in the eyes and hears a near-simultaneous click and whirr. Amy's new toy, her Polaroid camera, and she's having so much fun with it lately that it's hard to be mad at her.

She pulls off the square photo, waves it back and forth like a fan, then holds it in front of Juliet. Juliet watches her ghostly image darken and develop. Her hair's a mess and the grease on her face is worse than she thought. There's a reason they don't keep any mirrors here at the shop.

"Want it?" Amy asks.

Juliet shakes her head. "No. I look like a grease monkey."_ Never knew a grease monkey could be so damn sexy_ . . . she hears James' voice in her head and reconsiders, "Well . . ." she holds out her hand, then lets it fall back to her side. "No. It's all right. You keep it."

Amy shrugs. "All right. It'll be perfect for my scrapbook." Juliet grimaces, but again, it's so good to see her friend so happy, and she doesn't argue.

* * *

She's crossing the quad on her way home that night when she sees Amy across the way. Amy's waylaid James, Miles, and Jin on their way back from the Flame. Juliet shakes her head and laughs to herself as she watches Amy wave the three men closer together. Amy's saying something to them that Juliet can't quite make out, but she sees Miles drape his arms over the other guys' shoulders.

An odd sense of déjà vu prickles at Juliet's neck. She's watched this before. Watched Amy take this picture and . . . No, no. NO. Juliet hasn't seen Amy take the picture. No, what's she seen is the picture itself. That's the picture. That picture . . . under the floorboards . . . of AMY'S HOUSE. Nearly thirty years from now. Juliet stumbles home with an odd sense of understanding. They were always here. Daniel is part is kind of a relief. They were always here, and just like he said, they can't change anything. That's comforting to know.

* * *

_Later that night . . ._

Juliet presses a kiss onto James' sternum. She can feel his heart hammering in his chest, and she loves listening to it hammer and eventually even out and slow down. Sometimes when it slows down enough, she will hear it start to hammer again and she knows that means his blood's flowing southward.

She kisses his chest again, then props her chin there to look at him. "Know those rumors floating around about Amy and Horace?" she asks him. He nods. "They're all true," she states.

"That so?" he asks. "She tell you that?"

"Nope," Juliet shakes her head, then to cut off his next logical question (_He_ tell you that?), she elaborates, "He's gonna ask her to marry him."

"No shit?!" James blurts, surprised.

"Yeah, well . . ."

Well . . . well, no. No. He's going to buy her a ring, but isn't going to give it to her. Why not? She rests her cheek on James' chest because it's comfortable, and because she doesn't want him to become suspicious of her puzzled face.

James starts up about the Dharma gossip mill and slightly dirty, locker-room-type Horace-and-Amy rumors batted around the security office and Horace's recent lighthearted demeanor. Juliet pays no attention. Her mind is set on other things.

Paul. That must be why. Horace was there that very first night and the weeks and months after when Amy was so clearly grieving, and even if they are happy and finding comfort with each other now, doesn't he have to wonder? Wonder about Paul? Wonder about that part of her heart that is closed off to him? That must be it. _That_ Juliet can understand. So, he bought the ring, but won't ever give it to her. Because of Paul.

But then why is the ring still hidden under the floorboards thirty years from now? Because of the Purge. Juliet shivers. What happened, happened. Daniel is right. James notices her shiver and pulls her closer. Mmmmm. That feels nice.

And, wait, why does Horace keep a hidden Polaroid of James, Miles, and Jin?

"Nobody ever said Horace ain't a weirdo," James seemingly answers her, when he's really just been talking about the Horace/Amy phenomenon for the past few minutes. "But good for him. Good for both of 'em, right? Good they're happy."

**June 30, 1975**

"I'm so Goddamn sick and tired of apologizin'. So I ain't doin' it again. I've said my piece, and if you can't accept it, then that's _your_ problem, not mine. That's all I'm gonna say about it!"

She glares at him.

Despite his declaration that he was done talking about it, he adds, "And besides, it was complimentary! You should be proud!"

Her eyes widen. Is he _kidding_? Does he really believe that? "Proud?" she spits. "_Proud?_!" she nearly shrieks.

"It! Was! A! Compliment!"

Last weekend, he played poker with a bunch of the guys. Everyone had a bit too much to drink, and at some point in the evening, the guys were giving him hell over his bad luck. He'd lost nearly every chip he'd started the night with. So, he said, "Ain't no bad day can't be made better by goin' home to those tits."

All week she's dealt with mysterious nudges and winks and whistles down at the garage. Took her all day today to intimidate the story out of the new guy. And now he's calling it a compliment? A _compliment_?

She sputters. She can't even begin to tell him everything maddening about that. She grits, "I work with a bunch of men. And the way they looked at me this week, I. . ." she sputters again. "Don't you even get that? What it's like for me, working with all those guys?"

"Then you realize it's how guys talk."

"It's how they talk about the chicks they bang behind the shed. They don't talk that way about the women they care about, and you know what?" She throws up her hands. "Thank you. Thank you for making it perfectly clear what we're doing here. I'm clear on it now, and that's fine. Perfect. Great."

He snorts. "Hey, now, it ain't like that, and goddammit I'm sorry!"

"Thought you weren't saying that again," she snits. "We're late. Let's go." She storms out the front door of his house, thanking her lucky stars Miles wasn't home to hear their argument. She doesn't bother to look to see if James is following behind.

It's another in a long line of Dharma parties, and she isn't even quite sure what this one is supposed to be for. No new recruits. No holiday. Whatever. There's booze here, and she can just simmer for a while. She'll forgive him, eventually. It_ is_ good with him, and even if it is just about sex, well . . . the sex is _very_ good, and she wasn't being sarcastic when she thanked him for making that clear. Easier to know where she stands.

Halfway through the party, Horace rises and taps the neck of his beer bottle with a fork. The crowd quiets. Horace clears his throat and begins to speak. "I know there have been all sorts of rumors floating around here, and I guess I'd just like to confirm what you all probably know already." He grins. "Amy and I have been seeing each other, on the sly, I guess you'd say. That's just silly. So, now you know. Amy will be moving in to my place next week. Right, Ames?" he smiles at her across the room, and she smiles back.

The crowd hoots and whistles. Some share sage nods, as if it took any amount of deductive reasoning to figure that out, and NO. Wait, no. No, that's not right, Juliet thinks. Amy isn't supposed to move into Horace's house, _Horace_ is supposed to move into _Amy's_. That's where his mystery box is hidden. It's hidden in Amy's house.

No.

Something is wrong. Something has changed. Did she have something to do with it? Did she say something to Amy? To Horace? No. No no no. Horace has to move in with Amy. _Has to._

This is frightening. The idea they couldn't change the past was comforting. But that's not true anymore? So? Should they try to change things? Big things? Little things? That's . . . that's a responsibility she isn't prepared for. Or maybe they can't change the past. Maybe something will happen. Right? It has to. Horace has to move to Amy's house and store his mysterious shoe box under the floor prior to getting purged in the, well, Purge.

The alcohol she's had fuzzes her brain as much as the new realization. It's hot in here and noisy and crowded, and way too jovial. Most of these people are going to die. And she can stop it? Maybe. They can change things (or maybe not). She escapes to the rec room bathroom. The stalls are empty, so Juliet stares at herself in the mirror. What now? Does she tell James, Miles, and Jin? What she knows about the box, Amy's house? The little thing they've managed to change (or not)? If they can change things, James will wonder about his parents. Miles will wonder about_ his_ parents. And the Purge, and and and and. . .

Rosie pushes her way into the bathroom. Like Juliet, she stares at herself in the mirror. Unlike Juliet, she begins brushing back her bangs, which settle into fluffy feathered wings. She looks curiously at Juliet. Like, why's she just standing here staring at herself? Juliet could fluff her bangs back, but she's not completely 70-fied herself and is bangs-less. Instead, she reaches into her bag, pulls out a tube of lipstick, and reapplies. Unnecessarily. She's waiting Rosie out. Juliet touches her hair, pinches her cheeks, applies more lipstick . . . and Rosie leaves.

Juliet stares longer in the mirror. She looks like a clown. She'll just go home for the night, hope Deanne is out with Jerry. No point telling the guys all this when they're half soused anyway.

She strolls out, nonchalant, tries to smile a "no worries" smile at James. His eyes light up and she catches a twinkle there. She realizes that she's still mad at him or mad at herself for thinking there was more to their relationship than friendship and sex. "Ready to kiss and make up?" he asks.

She remembers her clown lips, grabs a napkin from the table, blots her lipstick, and shoves the napkin at him. "There. That's the only kiss you're getting tonight."

He clutches the napkin to his chest, dramatically fake swoons.

Juliet's heart falls through her spleen and settles somewhere around the back of her knees. "No," she gasps. "No. I . . . no . . . can you . .. please. Give that back to me. I . . . I was being childish. Please." She holds out a hand. "Please. I don't want . . ." she fumbles for words. Don't want what? What is it she doesn't want?

He looks confused, but recovers quickly with, "Now that's all very dramatic and mysterious. If this thing's so damn important to ya, don't worry. I'll treasure it forever." He makes a big show of tucking into his shirt pocket.

"No you won't," she whispers. Although he'll try to. Thirty years from now it . . . what . .. _what is going to happen to them?_ Everything she's known about . . . about that damn box. It's all wrong. She wasn't seeing it right. It's Bruce Willis at the end of _The Sixth Sense_. He was dead the _whole time_. That box was (is, will be) James' the whole time. That box is still there in 2001. Why? Are _they_ going to be purged? _What is going to happen to them?_

He takes her hand. "Hey," he says. "You OK?" She attempts a nod. He clears his throat. "Look. Let's stop fightin'. I been so damn worried about tryin' to win a fight. You know I'm new at this, right?" She manages a real nod. "Anyway. You were right. I shouldn't of said that to the guys. I's just tryin' to make them jealous. I wasn't thinkin'. This is more to me than just sex, and I guess now there ain't no way to prove that, but . . ."

She laughs then, and smiles. Too busy worried about all the bad things that hidden box might mean, not able to see the very good things. There's a diamond ring in that box, and other things he's saved. The fact that it's still hidden probably means something terrible. The fact that it's there at all means at least something is very good. All she manages is, "Don't brag like that again."

"Agreed," he affirms. "Now listen, Horace says I can have Amy's house. It's supposed to go with the job. Why Paul was in it. Anyway. If you'd like. . . I mean, I's hopin' . . . that you'd maybe . . . maybe would move in there with me?"

And another piece of the puzzle slides into place.

"Yes!" She says. "Yes. Yes. I will." He'll never give her that ring. Of this she is sure, but she can say yes to this.

**January 18, 1976**

She's the last in the garage tonight, working late. It's the #2 Jeep again. The Jeep isn't the problem. Its driver, Radzinsky, is. "Stewart, how many times do I have to tell you? Keep in under 35 on the road to the Orchid."

"Yeah, yeah. Just fix it, OK?"

She flips a bird at his retreating back. She always tries to arrange it to be assigned to James' Jeep. If he thinks this is because she's sleeping with him, or out of loyalty, or some other reason, all the better. Truth is, of the men who have personal Jeeps, Radzinsky beats his to hell, Horace never can seem to accurately describe his problems with it, Pierre's way too picky. James' is the easiest to take care of.

It's dark when she finally fixes the axel alignment. She locks up the valuable tools, unplugs the blowtorch, and signs out on the clipboard. She's not five steps from the garage when she hears a strange sound. A trapped animal, she first thinks. Then, no, she realizes it's someone crying. Probably Art's girlfriend, Terri. Those two always breaking up, making up, fighting or pawing all over each other. Juliet can never keep up with where they stand. It's so _complicated_. She's learned the hard way to keep her mouth shut and stay out of it. So she walks on, having no desire to comfort Terri in her hour of need. Terri will complain about what an asshole Art is, and if Juliet agrees, then it'll come back to haunt her tomorrow when they're back together, sunshine and roses again.

She's misjudged where the crying's coming from, though, and sees some form in shadows on the swing set. Its shoulders heave and the swing's chains twist slightly. If Juliet wants to get home without going right by the swing set, she's got to backtrack and go counterclockwise all around the barracks and go in through the back door. _Screw it_, she thinks, steeling herself to be a sympathetic shoulder for Terri to cry on.

By the time she sees who it really is in the swing, she's too close, and he sees her before she has a chance to retreat. He starts wiping away tears with the heels of his hands, but he collapses in sobs again while she stands, frozen.

"Ben?" she finally manages. "Are you OK?"

The kid nods through his tears. Juliet still can't move. She's chilled. Chilled by Ben, chilled by the prospect that he's crying after a beating from his own father.

"Annie's not coming back," he says.

Juliet nods. She's relieved he isn't physically hurt, but still she can't move. Annie. Ben's special friend. Probably good she got out while the getting was good. Being Ben's special friend right now probably is a sweet thing. Speaking from personal experience, Juliet knows being Ben's special friend will one day be a horror show.

"They were going to come back after her mom had the baby, but a letter came in on today's sub. Her dad got a good job in Cincinnati. So they aren't coming back."

Another nod from Juliet.

"She was my friend," Ben says, miserably. "The only friend I had. She's the only person on this whole island who was ever nice to me."

Surprisingly, Juliet feels a gentle wash of guilt lap over her. He's what? Twelve? Maybe? Just a ten-year-old when she first met him? He's smart, goofy, sweet, awkward, abused. A poor motherless kid, and she's never offered a kind word or a friendly smile. He's done nothing to her. He_ will_, but he hasn't yet.

She approaches the swing and crouches to his eye level. "I'm sorry about that, Ben," she says kindly. "I'm sorry things are so bad for you here." She actually means it. Poor kid. She reaches out a hand to put on his knee, but pulls back. She can be nice to him, but she can't touch him. It turns her stomach.

He sniffles. He glances toward the sky, futilely trying to keep more tears from falling. He stares at her thoughtfully. She fights a wave of nausea. "Do you think," he starts, then blinks away more tears. He takes a deep breath and then says, "LaFleur. I mean, he's a bigwig around here, right?"

Juliet shakes her head to indicate that no, he isn't, but remembers he's one of four people in this whole compound to have a personal vehicle. She stops shaking her head. She hedges, "I don't know about that. . ."

"He is!" Ben whines. "You know he is! And even if he's not, other people are. They'll listen to you. They won't listen to my dad. People will listen to you. The people here_ like_ you. You could convince them. Please."

"Convince them of what, Ben?" she asks. She should try to help him. She should. They really should try to do more about Roger.

"All I want," Ben sniffles again. "All I want, it's just . . . I wanna go home, please."

Juliet's hands feel clammy. Her face freezes. She says nothing.

Ben says, "Can't you please just let me go home?"

She has to answer him. She has to say something. _No. I don't have that power. No, you aren't ever going anywhere. No, you are stuck here for good because I know where you'll be in thirty years._

"No," she manages.

He must have held out hope that she could really help him, because that answer opens the floodgates. His mouth turns down, his chin gets dimply, and the tears flow in earnest. He collapses onto her shoulder. She's still frozen. He's crying on her shoulder and she can't even reach around to pat him on the back.

"I'm sorry," she tries to whisper, but the words get stuck in her throat. Saliva floods her mouth and sweat breaks out on her forehead. She is going to be sick. All she can do is stand up and leave him there, sobbing. She is a horrible, unfeeling person to leave a pre-teen boy in his hour of need. She also just tied the loop he started when he left her to sob in her kitchen. Or did she start the loop? She wonders how, exactly, he felt when _she_ begged _him_ to go home and collapsed in sobs on _his_ shoulder. She knows now he'll be here in thirty years; he knew then she'd been here thirty years ago. She wonders if surprise and realization dawned on his face when she wept on him.

She race walks home. James is lying on the couch, legs crossed at the ankles, glasses perched on his nose, book in hand.

"Evenin'," he greets her. Then, "Holy shit! Are you OK? What's wrong? What happened to you?" he sits up, his book tumbling to the floor. He reaches out to her. She takes his hands without thinking. She sits next to him, and for long minutes says nothing. He rubs her back and doesn't push.

Finally she tells him about Ben at the swing set just now. Ben in her kitchen in thirty years. How she was cruel to a young boy. How he was (will be) cruel to her. How he always knew she was going to be here. How she was and is trapped. How time is fucking with her. With them. Something about saying it out loud makes it seem stupid. Insipid. She shakes her head, fighting back tears. "Sorry. I know it probably all sounds stupid."

He squints at her, confused. "Naw. Don't sound stupid at all. Not one bit. God, hate I can't do nothin' about it. But it ain't stupid."

She blinks at him. No, of course not. It's not stupid. Of course it is normal and right to be unnerved by this. Of course it's human to be upset to be trapped here.

She rests her head on his shoulder and lets him run his fingers through her greasy, dirty hair. She lets him rub her back.

She thinks of the men in her life. Her dad always dismissed her fears. He was jovial and fatherly about it. Juliet's scared to ride her bike down the hill? "Jujube, you gotta stop worrying about everything. That's just a silly fear." Edmund did the same, but meaner. Juliet wants better lighting in the parking lot? "Juliet, don't be so stupid." Goodwin would just ignore any concern. Ben has a crush? "Psssh. I work on chemical gas that could kill everyone."

Jack. Jack probably wouldn't pooh-pooh her fears. No, but he'd already be up and about busy trying to fix something there's no way of fixing.

"Thank you," she whispers to James.

"Ain't done nothing," he says.

She lifts her head from his shoulder. "You have. Thank you." She looks into his eyes: sexy, kind, sad, worried. "I love you," she says.

His face goes blank. He blinks. He clears his throat. "You, uh . . wow. That's uh . . . wow. Thank you very much. Thank you for saying that."

She giggles, in part out of nerves, in part because of his stilted, polite response. "You are quite welcome."

He rolls his eyes. "I didn't mean that to come out so weird. It's just, I mean . . . it's," he shrugs. "Just been a really long time since anyone said that to me. And meant it. I, uh. . . I love you, too."

She shakes her head. She pats him on the chest. "You don't have to say that. It's OK."

"Naw. Naw, I mean it. I do. I hadn't gotten the courage up to say it, but I do. I do love you, Juliet . . . wait, what last name you goin' by these days?"

"Shut up," she says to him, leaning in to kiss him.

"All right, I do love you Juliet Shut Up. I do." He kisses her back, runs his hands through her hair again. He pulls the right one away quickly. Black grease coats his fingertips.

"Sorry," she murmurs. "Hold that thought? Let me take a shower?"

"Let me finish my chapter, and I'll join you," he agrees.

She reaches down to where his book has slid under the couch. She hands it over to him, catching sight of the title. _The Phantom Tollbooth_. She feels tears spring to her eyes. She's overwhelmed by his sentimentality, and the reason he'll want to treasure this particular book. "I love you," she says, kissing him again.

He drops the book to the floor. "I don't really gotta finish my chapter right now," he says. "It'll wait."

**May 1, 1977**

Juliet's rummaging through the kitchen junk drawer. She could have sworn they had a meat thermometer. An apple corer? Why do they have this? A meat tenderizer. A potato masher. A lemon juicer. When did they get all this stuff? And,_ why_? She can't even remember. Did the house come with it? Have they accumulated it over the course of . . . three years? Wow. Three years they've been here.

She hears James come in the front door. "Honey, I'm home," he calls out. A stupid little joke on their life of domestic bliss.

She stands at the kitchen entrance and says, "Phil came by earlier. A shipment came for you on today's sub. He dropped it off. Trying to suck up, as usual."

James stops in his tracks, widens his eyes. "What . . . what do you mean?" he stutters.

"I mean, I think the reason he brought it here was to curry favor with you. Isn't that what you're always complaining about?"

"No, I . . . what? He brought what?"

Is something wrong with his hearing? How is this confusing? What is his problem? She answers, slowly and patiently, "Something you ordered from the mainland. It's small. I put it on your dresser. I don't know what it is. Ask Phil."

"So you didn't look?"

"No. Why would . . . Oh!" her hand flies to her mouth then dips to cover her heart.

"What?" he asks, immediately suspicious.

"Nothing. I just . . . I just remembered . . ."

She gets it. She's thought about it some, no doubt, since she figured it all out, but she didn't think . . . not this soon.

"Remembered what?" he prods.

"I'm supposed to . . . supposed to go over, over, over to Amy's. She wants me to, uhm, move some . . . stuff. You know, she . . . in her condition. . . yeah. I forgot. I need to . . . _right_. So I should probably head over there now." She points toward the front door, indicating what direction she'll be heading. As if it's important for him to know. It is a horrible lie, horribly executed, but he's too anxious about the box on his dresser to notice.

She does go to Amy's. "If James ever asks, I was over tonight moving stuff for you."

"Trouble in paradise?" Amy lilts.

"Nope," she breezes_. I just reacted with surprise to something I found under the floor of our bedroom thirty years from now. But he doesn't know I know, so I made up a lie about it._ Which is the truth, but the lie reflex in her brain seems to be broken tonight. "Just needed a break." Lame, lame.

Amy looks skeptical. She does the pregnant lady thing where she rubs her hand over her belly. Juliet's nerves are already buzzing, and that gesture lights up every one of them. Mostly because one of these days that's going to be horribly dangerous. Maybe any day now. She doesn't want her friend to die, but also it kind of pisses her off that Amy seems so "concerned" about "trouble in paradise." Like it's any of her damn business, living her own version of domestic bliss, _actually_ married, _actually_ starting a family, and why she has to rub it in, Juliet doesn't know. And you know what? Amy's baby? _Horace_ did that. _Horace_. Bleargh.

Juliet shudders and shakes her head to clear it. She's getting untracked and giddy and weird and tense, her nervous system thrumming.

She stays a few more minutes. Long enough to make her "helping Amy move things" lie stand up. She returns home, where James is relaxed and reading on the couch, clearly doing much better with the whole nervous energy thing.

* * *

Over the next few months, he has plenty of opportunities. A nice candlelit dinner on their back porch. A late-night stroll around the compound on a beautiful, clear night. Her birthday. Oddly, she gets excited on these occasions, wondering if tonight could be the night. Then she has to remind herself that NO night will ever be the night. The ring is still there thirty years from now.

She vigilantly waits for the other shoe to drop. How long is he going to leave that there without asking her? Surely something is going to happen, and soon. So, when Jin calls early one morning, and James ducks out, looking guilty and nervous, she's immediately suspicious. When he tells her they're back, her knees buckle, and she finds herself sitting on the edge of the bed without quite knowing how she got there. Fear at how it is going to go down. Relief in knowing the other shoe_ has_ dropped. Hope that they'll be safe.

She wanders around on hyper alert, keyed in to every possible breach. It could be anything. The fact that they call her in to help out with Ben . . . they're on to her. She isn't who she says she is. They're going to get kicked out. Or, no. Everyone seems to be fine with that. It's sending him to the Others. They are going to get caught. Or, no, Kate and James are both back safe. So, what it is is Phil in the closet.

When it happens, when it crystallizes for her, she can't believe how blind she's been. "Freckles," he calls Kate, with eyes full of compassion and concern. Those eyes - sexy, kind, sad, worried – turned on Kate now.

Juliet swallows bile. God, how could she have been so blind? He's had nearly three months to ask her. He never did. Never pulled the trigger because he wasn't convinced. Still wondered about Kate. And here she is in all her freckled mop-topped glory. If he wasn't going to ask Juliet to marry him when they lived in ignorant, domestic bliss, he certainly isn't going to now that his true love is back.

DAMN. It's a _Sixth Sense_ moment all over again, everything she's known about that damn ring. It's all wrong. She wasn't seeing it right. It's not the Purge, or getting kicked out of Dharma or any other weird crazy Island thing. It's Bruce Willis at the end of _The Sixth Sense_. He was dead the _whole time_. It's been Kate the _whole time_. And Juliet was too blind to see.

And that's it. It's over. Done. All of it. Leaving the safety of Dharma and losing James in one fell swoop.

They pack up their belongings, and James tries desperately to apologize. She is so angry. So angry, and he doesn't have any need to apologize. She's angry at herself. If she'd never known that ring was there, she'd never known why he didn't ask. She'd never have hoped. He's reaches out to her, and he's standing right on top of the loose floorboard. _It's right there_. If he's so sorry, why doesn't he just reach down and pull it up?

Because of Kate, that's why.

* * *

Juliet's mouth hurts. It's swollen and sore, and she feels like she's gone a few rounds with the dentist. James' face looks like he took the meat tenderizer to it. They're disgraced and in handcuffs an even though it hurts to do it, she can't keep the smile off her face.

They _are_ getting kicked out. It _was_ rather sudden. They have _none_ of their belongings. It's going to be OK. It had_ nothing_ to do with Kate. James rhapsodizes about what they'll do when they get off the sub, and she decides that when they do, she'll tell him about what she knows.

* * *

You know what? Nevermind. Again.

It was Kate. It was. It is. It always will be. Juliet knows he wants to believe he's "with her." She knows he _does_ believe it. But if that was really true, that ring wouldn't still be under the floorboards. Or he'd at least tell her about it now. But he stands there looking dumb and confused.

_I know about it, please just say something. This is your chance, please._ Of course, he doesn't.

* * *

Later, the thought will cross her mind: If she hadn't known about the ring, if she hadn't spent the past few months on hyper alert, would things have been different? Would she have been so quick to jump to conclusions about Kate? Conclusions she realized (way too late) were wrong? Would she have been more forgiving? Less impetuous? Probably.


	3. Chapter 3

**There are supposed to be some emails in this chapter. In fact the very first thing, but I forgot about this site's weird stripping of email addresses, links, etc. So, whatever. Frustrating. **

* * *

**From:** carlsonje  
**Sent:** Friday, September 24, 2004 8:12 PM  
**To:** gator_rach  
**Subject:** $&%^#*& !

Dear Rachel,

Welcome home! Sorry I haven't had a chance to call today. Busy, busy, busy. Call me in the morning, 'k?

Speaking of busy, guess where I am right now? Here's a hint: NOT at the concert. Here's another hint: see the account I'm sending this from. $&%^#*& ! They called me back to see some patient I'd seen earlier today. OK, frustrating, but fine. HOWEVER she signed out AMA before I got here. $&%^#*& !

The charge nurse says she bailed on the cops too, if that makes me feel any better. Uhm, no. NO it does not.

And why am I still here, you ask? Because Dr. Franzen saw me and wants me to review some charts. I've been gone for a week, I couldn't say no. I know, I know, I *could* have. I should have, yes, yes, you don't have to tell me, but, well, I didn't. And am I reviewing charts now? Nooooooo. Dr. F is who knows where. He gets 15 more minutes and I'm out of here. $&%^#*& !

I need coffee . . .

Oh! You will never in one million billion years guess who was at the concert with me and David. Jack's … sister! Yes, you read that right. OK, half-sister. So, it turns out the dearly departed Dr. Christian S. had a few skeletons in his closet. I can register your absolute shock (_shock!_) at such a notion from 2k miles away. Anyway, she seems like a sweet girl. Call tomorrow and we will DISCUSS. Is this making Jack's head explode? Little bit. Is that enjoyable? Yes, yes it is.

Still no sign of Dr. Franzen. $&%^#*& ! I need coffee . . .

Guess what? No coffee here at the desk. Should I A) make some here or B) take my chances with the family lounge down the hall? That stuff's probably been on the burner for HOURS. I will make some here. NOPE. Just informed we're out of filters. Down the hall it is. Just great. That stuff is nasty.

$&%^#*& !

Call me tomorrow!

Love you,

J

**Saturday, Sept. 25 10:15 AM**

_Hi, you've reached Juliet and David. Neither of us can come to the phone right now. Leave a message, we'll get back to you soon as we can_.

"Hey, little sis, it's me. Calling like you said to. It's, uhm, little after 10 your time. I'll try your cell. If I don't get you, call me when you can. Oh! David, if you're listening: _Pet Sounds_ or _London Calling_. Pick one. Love you guys. Later!"

**Saturday, Sept. 25 10:18 AM**

_Hello, this is Juliet's voicemail. I'm sorry I missed your call. Please leave a message._

"Jules, yo! Rachel here. All right. Just left a message at your house, too. Don't let me forget: I have an album to send to David. Tell him to listen to the message at home. Anyway, call me. Bye!"

* * *

**From:** gator_rach  
**Sent:** Saturday, September 25, 2004 11:07 PM  
**To:** carlsonje  
**CC:** Juliet_Carlson  
**Subject:** re: $&%^#*& !

Do you see in the message below where you asked me to call you? Three times you mentioned this. Just pointing it out.

* * *

**Saturday, Sept. 25 11:48 AM**

_Hello, this is Juliet's voicemail. I'm sorry I missed your call. Please leave a message._

"Rachel again. What's up? Why haven't you called me back? You aren't still stuck at the hospital are you? Call me!"

**Saturday, Sept. 25 11:55 AM**

_Hi. You have reached the office of Dr. Juliet Carlson. If this call is in regards to lab results or appointment scheduling, please press pound, then extension 327. Otherwise, please leave a message at the tone, and I'll return your call as soon as possible. Thank you. _

"Helllllllllloooooo? Yes, I have a very important message for Dr. Carlson. This is your sister, fool. Call me. You are starting to freak me out."

**TXT MESSAGE 11:57 AM**

Rachel: WTH? Where r u?

**Saturday, Sept. 25 12:10 AM**

_This is David. Leave a message. _

Hey, dude. It's Aunt Rachel. I'm pretty sure you're supposed to be at your dad's this weekend. Right? But still, I'm having trouble getting in touch with your mom. Just thought I'd try your phone. Nope? . . . Nope. OK. I picked up some new albums for you. I know your mom's weird hang-ups about old-school technology, but these are the real deal. Genuine vinyl. Call me. Tell your mom to call her sister. OK? All right. Later, dude. Love you.

**Saturday, Sept. 25 12:15 AM**

_Hi, you've reached Juliet and David. Neither of us can come to the phone right now. Leave a message, we'll get back to you soon as we can_.

This whole thing is really freaking Rachel out. OK, she can think of a shit ton of sane reasons Juliet isn't answering her phone: 1) late night at the hospital, so she's still sleeping, and she's turned off her ringer(s). Happened all the time when David was a baby, and again when she was in residency. 2) Busy running errands 3) Still at hospital, doesn't have cell charger 4) Something ridiculous to do with her ex-mother-in-law 5) David has soccer game or concert 6) Working in her yard.

It's not some insane reason like Juliet has been whisked off to some exotic location beyond the reach of phones, emails, and text messages. It's not. Surely Juliet's not answering for some totally sane reason, and what's freaking Rachel out is the simple fact that it _**is**_ freaking her out. Because that would never happen, right? Juliet being out of touch. No, of course not. No. Of course not. What? What would even make Rachel think that?

Juliet and David's machine beeps.

Rachel says, "Helllllooooooooo? I'm flummoxed. Where the hell are you, and what are you doing? I'm not trying to be a weirdo stalker caller but you said to call. You said it, so if you'd just be so kind as to drop me a line so I know you didn't get kidnapped by an evil band of scientists or something, I would very much appreciate it. I'm really about this close to hanging up and calling Jack to see . . .

"Hello?" Juliet answers, sounding rushed, harried, out of breath, practically panting.

Relief floods through Rachel, who can't help but be a little pissed. "Jesus, Jules! What the hell? Where have you been?" And then a little concerned, "And why are you all out of breath?"

"I, uhm, . . ." but still clearly catching her breath.

Rachel interrupts, "Have you been running? Is that why you're too busy to call your own sister? _Exercising?" _Like she thought: totally sane reason.

"Something like that. . ." Juliet pauses for another deep breath and giggle. "Sorry."

Yeah, nice she can freaking _giggle_ about her sister being so worried. Little shit. "Yeah, sorry, _I'll say_. OK, I'm sorry, too, I don't know why I got so weird about it, but you said to call, and it was weird. I mean, seriously, I'd tried just about every mode of communication possible. Was thinking I'd have to start writing you a good old-fashioned letter."

There is an extended pause on Juliet's end of the line. Enough to get Rachel worrying again, but before she can ask anything, Juliet says, "Oh my God. Oh, Rach. I'm so sorry. I missed you."

OK, yep, worrying again. Rachel says, "_What?_ What? You're sure you're OK?"

"I'm fine. Better than fine." Thing is, it kind of sounds true. Now that Juliet's caught her breath, she does sound fine. Better than fine. Relaxed. Happy.

Rachel hears a voice (What? The hell?) in the background "Mmmmmmmppphhh…..soon? Mmmmmmmmph . .. this time?" A man's voice. Too deep to be David. Doesn't sound like Jack . . .

She asks, "Who the hell is that? Is someone there with you? Did you finally get the electrician in? You need to get that microwave fixed. Is it the electrician?"

Juliet sounds like she's fighting laughter when she answers, "He's not an electrician. He's a cop."

"A cop? ? ? A _cop_? What kind of cop?"

"Detective."

TOTALLY worrying again. Rachel says, "OK, you are freaking me out. Where's David? Is he OK? Are you OK? Why do you need a detective?"

"Relax. He's not here on business."

Rachel's brain can't process this exactly. She says, "I . . . do. . . what do you mean . . ."

She hears the muffled voice again. "Mmmmmmmph. Tell . . . mmmmmph… mmmmph… terrible idea."

Juliet's back on the phone. "He says to tell you hi. And the motorcycle is a terrible idea."

Rachel answers, too fast, "Of course it's a terrible idea." [it's why she's never said anything to Juliet about it, and she isn't an insane person with a death wish, and she is a single mom, so if she were ever to get a bike, which, OK, yes, she sort of fantasizes about, it would be after Julian's out of the house, so decades from now probably, and, yes, yes, she does totally intend to do this, and . . . WHAT? WHAT?!] "What do you mean, he says hi? Who is this guy? We've met before?"

"I don't think you remember."

"Don't remember? Remember what? Remember meeting him? Is he not memorable? Why don't I remember?"

"It was a whole 'nother lifetime, Rach."

Rachel contemplates. "Oh, God. That summer I was following the Dead? Is that what you mean? I was so baked, I . . ."

"Yeah, listen. We're kind of busy right now. Can I call you back this afternoon?"

"Busy with what?"

"Multiplication flashcards. What do you think? _Seriously_."

Rachel snorts. Who is this guy? And should she be more worried than she is? She is not worried. She was absolutely freaked when Juliet wouldn't answer the phone, but a mysterious guy who pops up out of nowhere doesn't bother her? Strange things are afoot.

"OK. Call me back, though. Promise?"

"I promise. Absolutely. It's all OK."

**All right, well, the end, the end. Catch y'all again later sometime if/when boredom/inspiration strikes.**


End file.
